Of Crime Scenes and Compassion
by Besina
Summary: Sherlock gets wounded and Anderson is the only one remaining to help. Fluff/Adversaries/Hurt-Comfort


Written by Besina  
March 17, 2013

Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me and I mean no copyright infringement by bringing them out to play; I make no money off of this fanfic.

A/N: I have a small number of friends who like Anderson, and who have made a good point that he's not a bad guy just for standing up to Sherlock - he is, after all, just doing his job. So since there aren't many complimentary fics out there showcasing Anderson's human side in them, I thought I'd write one. Please give it a go, even if Anderson's not your thing - I could use the feedback! Thanks! :D

* * *

They'd been on the scene for a couple of hours now; night was beginning to fall.

"Go on with Lestrade, John, start winding up the paperwork on this. I'll be with you shortly," Sherlock intoned, still moving about the crime scene. Something about it was nagging at him. It was the third such homicide in as many months, and something was off about this one — something he felt certain he shouldn't be missing — something obvious, and he was beginning to fret.

Other police were slowly loading up the body and various bits of evidence, climbing into cars to head over to the labs or back to NSY. Anderson had remained behind to hover possessively over the crime scene. Both he and Sherlock were completely convinced the other would muck things up if left to their own devices.

Thirty minutes ticked by, the rest of the team had departed, and Sherlock was still no closer to figuring out what was nagging at him.

"I'm missing something," Sherlock murmured irritably to himself.

"What's that?" enquired Anderson, unable to catch the words completely.

Sherlock looked up, as if just realising the man was there. "I said, I'm missing something." He looked around briefly for John, then remembered he'd dismissed him. No one else was nearby. He sighed heavily. Anderson would have to do.

"There's something about this crime scene — something different than the two others. It's at the back of my mind but I can't put my finger on it. _Think_, Anderson! What's different? What's missing?"

Anderson stood, stunned for a moment that Sherlock was actually asking for his help, and managing not to insult him in the process. He gathered his wits quickly and began looking around the room. He saw nothing obviously missing — though they'd been stabbings, it wasn't like the two previous ones had been particularly bloody, or had initials carved into them or some such thing. There'd been nothing extraneous at the previous two scenes that stuck out in his memory. His eyebrows scrunched downward as he surveyed it all once more.

Sherlock looked up at him, saw the conundrum written across his face, and sighed. "Nevermind. I shouldn't have expected you to notice something I couldn't pick up on…"

"The smell," Anderson interrupted, causing Sherlock's eyes to snap back to his.

"Say again?"

"The smell," he repeated. "The other two crime scenes, one smelled faintly, the other rather strongly, of some sort of incense. It's the only thing, other than the bodies, that I can think of that tied the two together. There's no odour here."

Sherlock let this information trickle through his brain before a spark shown behind his eyes for a moment, they widened, and he let out a soft, "Oh!" of enlightenment.

He stood up quickly. "Come on, Anderson, we're done here. Give me a ride back, yes?"

The pathologist looked at him, confused. Sherlock was being uncharacteristically civil, and was ushering him from the room by a gentle pressure on his elbow. He could only assume that either the detective was high, or that it was some sort of code that something was severely wrong. As Sherlock had tended to be just, if not more, snarky back when he had been using, Anderson could only conclude it was the latter.

As they descended the stairs together, he leaned in toward him and asked under his breath, "What's going on?"

"Outside," Sherlock murmured back, "to the car, as quickly as possible without looking panicked."

Sherlock jerked the front door open for him and strode out afterward, shutting it firmly behind them.

They both strode quickly toward the police car, still parked a substantial distance away.

Anderson was about to re-voice his question when Sherlock continued, "We interrupted him," he glanced sideways at Anderson, then went on, "With all the others — he apparently had some sort of ritual he finished up with — not sure_ what_ exactly, as it didn't involve mutilating the corpses, but since this type of crime doesn't create a strong smell that would need to be covered, the incense was for ritual purposes — we interrupted him. He hasn't left the scene. He's probably still lurking about and most likely, angry."

Sherlock's gaze travelled over the surrounding area, looking for any places likely to conceal someone.

"Why don't we call for backup?"

"Oh we certainly will, once we're safely in the car driving away from here." Sherlock intoned grimly. "Personally, I wouldn't bet on our chances staying here and waiting for the others to return. This one's armed with god-knows-what, deranged, and now harbouring a grudge. I don't know if he recognises me or not, but _you_ certainly look as though you're with the police and he's seen both of us tramping around in there."

They were three-quarters of the way to the car when Sherlock turned suddenly, a hint of movement slightly behind and to the right of them catching his eye. Something flashed briefly as Sherlock yelled and pushed Anderson to the ground behind him, landing roughly on top of him a second later.

There was another flurry of movement as the suspect rushed past them, the sound of the car engine engaging, and the squeal of tyres as it took off through the night.

Anderson sat up as best he could, pushing Sherlock from him. "Well, there goes the suspect," he grumbled. Sherlock was strangely silent. He turned to look at him.

Sherlock had slid onto the street, and now lay next to him, clutching at something in his left side. "Surprisingly good shot, considering it's not a throwing knife," came a laboured breath. "Fetch me my scarf, would you?"

The scarf was around the detective's neck, but he'd seen John retrieve items closer to Sherlock — shirt pockets for example — and now it almost made sense that he'd need some help getting it. He quickly loosened it and pressed it against Sherlock's side. He knew better than to try to draw the blade out — it would only encourage bleeding and possibly do more harm than good.

"Your phone, Sherlock? Let me call for an ambulance."

Sherlock winced, "John's got it. Where's yours?"

"Back in the house, with all my other equipment."

"Go get it."

Anderson looked around, unsure.

"He's not coming back, Anderson, go get your phone. I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock laid his head back against the street and closed his eyes briefly.

"Fine, but you're not allowed to go to sleep."

Sherlock nodded, and Anderson rose, sprinting back to the crime scene, well the _first_ crime scene; he supposed they had_ two_ now.

Entering, he grabbed his phone and forensics kit — he had no idea if anything in there would be of any help, but better safe than sorry, and dialled 999 as he jogged back to Sherlock, letting the medical dispatcher know where they were.

* * *

He knelt back down next to Sherlock, patting the detective's face a few times until his eyes fluttered open and he took him in again.

"Ah, kit, fantastic. Bag, please."

"What?" Anderson already had it half-opened by the time he asked, but still couldn't fathom what Sherlock would want with a bag. He produced one, extending it toward the detective.

"Over the knife handle please," he paused to gain another breath, "the medics won't think much about it, but… fingerprints."

He nodded. Of _course_ Sherlock would have noticed the perpetrator hadn't been wearing gloves while a knife was hurled at him. Of course he would, because Sherlock was _insane_. He opened the bag and gently slid it down over the handle of the knife, trying not to disturb it. Sherlock nodded and leaned his head back again, a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead glinting in the low light of the street lamps.

"Hang on, Sherlock, they'll be here soon," he said, for lack of anything better.

"Good work back there," Sherlock managed.

"What?" Anderson was dumbstruck for a second time that evening.

"With the smell. I hadn't thought of that."

"Um, thanks? — Sherlock, how hurt are you?"

"I should live, blood loss is the main worry — at this angle, I don't think it hit anything important. Why?"

"Why are you being so… nice? It's disturbing."

"No reason not to be, you did well."

"Yes, but you're normally calling me an idiot."

"I normally call everyone an idiot." A silence followed while Sherlock breathed and forced himself to keep his eyes open. "I wouldn't call someone who actually _was_ an idiot an idiot. It would be cruel, and moreover a waste of breath. A true idiot is already operating at their peak; insulting them would do nothing to improve that.

"No, I only insult you, because I know you can do better. You have a brain, but you just don't _use_ it — just like everyone else.

"And you do get on my nerves," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Oh." Anderson almost felt he should be flattered, but the feeling was conflicted. He looked back down at Sherlock, who was looking a lot more pale than usual, his breath still coming in laboured draws, although if it was through sheer difficulty breathing or from pain, he couldn't be sure. His grip had loosened on the scarf and a bloody puddle was spreading from beneath the detective.

"Here, let me." He scooted over to Sherlock's side, the better to put pressure against the wound.

They were quiet for a few moments before Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut.

"Sherlock?" Anderson patted his face a few times with increasing force. Sherlock didn't respond. He was still breathing though, so that was good.

"Sherlock!" He tried again, still no response.

"Christ, listen, they'll be here soon. You've lost some blood, but you've still got enough to make it through til they get here, alright?" The last bit was more of an order than a question.

"So listen to me: You may be an obnoxious prat who is a constant embarrassment to me, but you honestly _do_ help people, regardless of why you do it. And as much as it pains me to say it, you get it done quicker than most of us would, even working together. They way your mind works — I don't know, but you make leaps of logic that would take us days, even weeks to figure out, if we ever did at all. So you've got to stay with me. None of this giving up shite — that's not like you anyway.

"I hope you're listening because all this ego stroking, no matter how true it might be, won't be happening again."

Sherlock groaned and moved slightly.

"That's it, stay with me. Can you open your eyes?" Sherlock didn't seem to be any more responsive, but Anderson kept talking nonetheless — at least it might keep the detective engaged on some level.

Soon the sound of an ambulance pierced the night and within moments, the crew had arrived and was attending to Sherlock, looking with concern at the weapon protruding from him with its baggie-covered handle.

"Evidence," Anderson replied sheepishly as they gave him a _look_ as if to say, 'Who would worry about evidence at a time like this?'

Explaining would take too much effort, so he let them assume what they wished. "The Yard'll be wanting that. Serial killer," he appended. The looks he'd been getting softened a little bit, but by no means did they disappear.

They trundled Sherlock onto a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance, starting an IV of blood and packing the wound before the doors were set to close.

One of the medics looked around and seeing no vehicle, asked Anderson if he was going to ride with Sherlock to the hospital.

Only then did he realise in all the confusion, he had completely forgotten to call Lestrade and let them know what had happened. He hopped in the back with them, pulling the doors shut behind him as they started off toward the A&E, and took care of that call en-route.

John and Lestrade met him at the hospital while the rest of the unit scoured the area near the last crime scene looking for their subject. Anderson gladly briefed them on the situation, handing over the knife which had recently been extracted from Sherlock, explaining about the fingerprints and let them take over from there, going home gratefully to take a shower and sleep.

Sherlock recovered nicely, the blade having only grazed anything important, and his stay in the hospital was relatively short, considering. John, of course, was simultaneously angry at his flatmate and worried sick, but that seemed to be the default setting for them anyway.

Their perpetrator was eventually caught, mainly due to the fingerprints they'd salvaged. He'd been in the system before for minor assaults and was taken down with little fuss at his workplace.

The next time the two met at a crime scene, if Sherlock uttered the _'idiot'_ epithet a little less often, and Anderson seemed a bit more keen to think things through before offering his opinion, no one else noticed.

~ Fin ~

* * *

Kudos are wonderful; feedback is love!  
If there is a particular line or scene you enjoyed, I'd love to hear about it!

Con-crit and Brit-picking always welcome.

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